I’ve known him since I was a kid. I know how his mind works. And I know he’s tortured over what happened. Seeing me will just add to that torment.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Lucas,” Kylie says impatiently when I tell her what’s on my mind. “Of course he wants to see you. Don’t be a douche friend.” Even though she’s not in front of me right now, I’m able to picture her brown eyes squinted into a frown as she runs her hands through her newly colored hair—the worst goddamn combination of red and white-blonde—in frustration.
“Stop playing band mediator.” Which is what Kylie’s been doing for a long time now. She’s been convinced since the very beginning that YTS is going to break up at any moment. Kylie makes a low noise on the other line, and I groan. “But relax, I’m going to go.” Still, I clench my fingers around the lukewarm glass as I down the rest of my beer. I signal for Luisa who quirks her lips sympathetically as she nods.
My sister sighs. “Good. So, I’ll see you tomorrow? I told Sin I’d pick him up in the afternoon so I can be at your place to get you around—”
“I’ll come get you,” I interrupt. Kylie’s little car f**ks me and my forehead over every time I get in it, she can’t drive my Jeep because it’s a stick, and I don’t trust her enough to give her the keys to my Audi yet. “See you at eleven.” Luisa slides my drink across the bar counter toward me, and I mouth a thank you. She winks at me then turns away to wipe down the counter.
“You better not be late.”
“Whatever, see you tomorrow.” She doesn’t have a chance to respond before I hang up, and I mute my phone before shoving it into the pocket of my jeans.
“Trouble with the redhead?” Luisa asks, pretending to be interested in a spot of abso-fucking-lutely nothing on the counter.
I c**k an eyebrow at her. “Hmm?”
“The redhead who was in here the night I drove you home,” she says. When my gaze remains hard, she glares down at the counter and scrubs more furiously. “I assumed you’d gotten back together, and maybe that was her.”
The only thing I’d told Luisa the last time I was here was that Sienna had worked on the “All Over You” music video. And the closest I’d come to mentioning being in a relationship is when, instead of going back to her place, we hit a 24-hour restaurant. She told me about her most recent ex—some motherfucker whose wife had slashed her tires and busted out her windshield two months ago. I’d told her I screwed up, that I was fixing things, and what a shithead her ex was. She hadn’t asked me to go home with her again after that.
“You’re being summoned.” I point behind Luisa to the loud ass group waving her down on the other side of the bar. She drops the cloth to the counter, and as she starts to leave, I say quietly, “It wasn’t her.”
She nods slowly. “For what it’s worth, I hope things work out for you.” She bites her bottom lip. “Even if you did turn me down.”
“I’m not what you want,” I say, my voice colder than I intend. Luisa shakes her head.
“What-the-fuck-ever, Wolfe.” She stops biting her lip and spins around, glancing over her shoulder once just to see if I’m checking out her ass. When she realizes that I’m not, she gives me a disappointed smile. “Let me know if you need anything.”
She doesn’t make her way back over to me before I leave ten minutes later, and though I’m sure it’s intentional, I wave before I step out the front door.
***
For the first time in what seems like years, I dream instead of destroy myself in my sleep. There are no regrets or f**k-ups, no random bullshit, but my dream is about her. Sienna. About the day she spent with me in Atlanta right before I screwed things up with her. She’s in that Four Seasons hotel bed with me, with her hair spread around her, her pink lips curved into a soft smile.
“What’s your favorite guitar,” she asks, turning her face to me.
“Depends on the day,” I say.
She traces the tip of her tongue over her lips, wetting them. It’s an innocent enough move on her part, but it’s enough to make my dick rock hard. That’s always been the thing about Sienna that I’ve loved and f**king loathed. “Okay, what about today?”
“The Les Paul.”
“Why?”
I brush my fingers over one of her perfect tits, running them over the slightly bruised flesh my guitar pick had skimmed the night before. “Because it’s the only one I use with the pick that touched right here.”
Propping herself up on one of her elbows, she lowers her blue eyes to the small space of white sheet between our bodies. “You make me want to—” she begins. When she whispers, “Forget it,” I slide my hand up her chest, past the base of her delicate throat—which causes her to shiver—and then to under her chin. I force her gaze back up to meet mine.
“Tell me what I make you want to do,” I growl. Because chances are, I probably want it more than she does.
She clenches her teeth, but I glide the tip of my thumb between her lips, feeling a thrill of pleasure when she bites down on it hard. “You make me want to lose myself.”
“You should.” I move closer to her. “I want every part of you for myself, Sienna.”
She tosses her head back and laughs. “Let me guess? So you can use your entire guitar pick collection on me?”
“Only when you grit your f**king teeth,” I warn, and she pulls in a shaky breath.